


Ghosted

by y00ti



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bad Ghost Jokes, Eddie is Dead (Or is He?), Gay Eddie Kaspbrak, Gay Richie Tozier, Ghost Eddie Kaspbrak, Ghost Sex, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Canon Fix-It, Richie is Alive (But At What Cost?), dick wet and eyes wept
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-01-25 18:24:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21360694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/y00ti/pseuds/y00ti
Summary: “You’re real, aren’t you? Because there’s likely to be some sick, twisted probability that this is some fucked up hell based simulation, and I’d rather know now. Because I’m not here for you to turn around and be Satan in a Richie suit.”" - I am not the fuckin' devil, for crying out loud. As far as I'm concerned, you might be. Here to torture me, 'cause the fuckin' clown was your second cousin or some shit."
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 13
Kudos: 88





	1. Listen To Your Heart

Dying is a peculiar thing.

Nothing like how the church describes it or TV portrays it. It is sudden, in a way; one minute he is _aware, _he can tell it is happening – and not just because he’s grievously wounded, even though that sure is the main factor. And the next there is _nothing. _Nothing at all.

For once in his life, Eddie’s witnessing complete silence. _It’s wild._

No whining from his mother or his wife. No constant calls from work or the screams of drivers and the busy nights of New York. Even moments before he passes, everyone is shouting abuse. He can forgive them, though – they had a pretty good reason for yelling.

Eddie feels bad for lying to their faces, even if it was just a little bit. Unhappily married, in a career he didn’t particularly enjoy – how does one bring _that _up during dinner, anyway? Not that he didn’t _want to, _first Richie took the spotlight, then the fortune cookies and everything went downhill pretty fast from then on. (And, okay, he totally didn’t want to.)

Richie.

Fucking _Richie._

The last fucking thing Eddie thinks of. Not the fact that there’s a gaping hole in his chest and he’s bleeding out faster than coming up with a fitting metaphor for it takes. Not that his wife will never have any resemblance of an idea about what happened to him. Not that he never got to explore the truth of his life, while it lasted. But_ Richie fucking Tozier._

Well, it probably has something to do with the fact that he is the last person Eddie sees, too. Clutching at him, leaning way into his personal space and trying to convince him that everything is going to be_ just fine._ At this point, Eddie’s wondering whether it was_ him_ who Richie so desperately tried to convince, anyway.

In any case, Eddie spends his last breathing moments looking at Richie. And perhaps...

Perhaps this is the reason for the fact that he’s_ still_ looking at him.

Eyes follow the knife as it digs out wood from the kissing bridge and Eddie’s mind is just_ static noise._ Richie stares at the carving and Eddie stares at Richie, and everything around them is silent, except from the rustling wind and some car honking in the further distance, which is just terribly anticlimactic.

Eddie knows he’s dead. He knows because when Richie turns around, his eyes – _oh, he’s been crying? he’s totally __been crying – _land on Eddie for a second. Go right through him, don’t even do a double take just continue their journey along the road, right where he’s parked his car.

“Asshole,” Richie suddenly says.

Eddie nearly jumps out of his skin – has he been spotted? But one look at Richie tells him everything; the way his lips quiver, how his voice breaks. It’s hard to look at, so Eddie averts his gaze; hands clenched into fists. This feels _wrong, _he shouldn’t be listening in or seeing all of this. Not like that.

Richie, of course, goes on. He clearly can’t just do an internal monologue like a normal fucking person.

“You should’ve – I didn’t even – Fuck. Fuck!”

Eddie’s still not looking but he hears the other laugh at himself; a small, humorless sound. It’s heartbreaking.

“You deserved to walk out of there. You deserved so much more than that, I’m – I’m _so sorry._”

“It’s fine,” Eddie says, but of course it’s pointless.

It is, right? This has to be some sort of a punishment, having to see this. But he still follows Richie to the car, still keeps a small distance, just in case if Richie catches a glimpse of him. He’s – what, _a ghost _now? Ghost sightings happen, so who’s to say? It’s not like some high and mighty entity appeared to explain whatever in the everloving fuck is happening to him, if there is a mission to accomplish, time to do. Eddie just goes with it. Cautious, per usual.

“You did your best, Rich,” he says, watching Richie get into that obnoxiously red Mustang that just screams mid-life crisis. “Things happen for a reason. At least that’s what ma used to say all the damn time. The world has its way of paying back. Bad things come to liars and all that, and – shit, I guess that’s what came to me?”

After a moment of hesitation, he decides to get into the car right behind Richie. Hovers over the door, but Richie shuts it too quick and Eddie goes through a small moment of panic – and then decides to do something very ghostlike.

“This is so dumb,” he breathes out and walks right into the closed door.

And his entire body goes right through it. Eddie’s excited gasp is so loud that he slaps a hand over his mouth instinctively. Richie doesn’t even blink, though, just starts the car and grips the wheel, tight. Eddie makes himself comfortable, which involves just sort of awkwardly hovering over the passenger seat, and watches him with a worried frown. It’s clear that Richie is trying to calm down – which is good, driving the car into a tree or something, first thing after he _(they)_ leaves Derry would neither be a great start nor a good omen.

And then Richie flinches. Just a little bit, a small blink, barely-there twitch – and he looks around the car. Eddie stops breathing and his heart skips a beat; which is exactly what makes him realize he still has it. _A heartbeat._ Even though it feels different now, as if it comes less from the organ itself and more from within.

“Bullshit,” Richie says, again, unable to just_ think things._

Did he_ hear_ what Eddie just said, somehow? Because it sure seems like a Richie kinda answer to what he just said.

“Rich?” he tries.

“That’s bullshit. You didn’t do any_fucking_thing wrong. It’s the bad shit – it’s all the terrible, terrible fuckin’ things that happened to us.”

“Rich,” he tries again, because Richie’s knuckles turn white on the wheel.

But then the grip loosens and Richie breathes out and with that so does Eddie, his gaze soft and curious, and still very much cautious. Richie keeps talking.

“You deserve to be happy, alright? You do. We all fuckin’ do. _Fuck. _Okay, let’s go, you sappy bitch.”

It sounds like a pep-talk more than anything, but still, Eddie averts his eyes yet again. They drive off. Luckily, he tags along with the car instead of being left behind in the spot where he hovers, which makes him think that it’s maybe not _a place _he’s plastered to.

And it’s fine. It’s really fine with Eddie - _somebody_ has to look over that idiot, anyway.

The drive is pretty much uneventful, which Eddie is quietly thankful for. Dead or not, he’s ready to just be bored out of his mind, tagging along next to Richie. Who seems to be in a much better state than back on the bridge; he turns the music on and even hums along to some of the songs. Eddie leans back and looks out of the window, looks out for the signs they are passing to figure out where exactly they are headed. It doesn’t take him long – it has to be New York.

Richie stops a couple of times – bathroom breaks, Eddie assumes, because he politely waits for him in the car. The least he can do, considering that Richie has _no clue _he’s playing ghost uber. He gets himself coffee during one of these breaks and some gross gas station food, which Eddie not so silently judges him for.

“How the fuck can you eat that,” he winces as sad, greasy fry falls from Richie’s mouth to the floor to be forever forgotten.

With that comes the realization that, even though he thinks of food fondly – well, good fucking quality food, anyway – Eddie doesn’t feel neither thirst or hunger. He wonders whether it would be possible to at least _try _to taste something, but then again, a floating hot-dog would surely strike fear into the bravest of hearts and he doesn’t want to traumatize Richie further.

Finally they reach their destination which is, just as Eddie suspected, NYC. They drive through the traffic and into a more secured area; passing gate after gate, and soon they are surrounded by big and beautiful houses. Eddie vaguely remembers Richie mentioning that he lives in Beverly Hills but has places here and there. Prefers to stay there while touring instead of hotels, which Eddie totally understands, hotels are mostly gross and unsanitary. He suspects that’s not the reason that Richie has to put a third password in a row now; the house that reveals itself is not as big as the ones they passed on their way, but it still had to cost a fuckton._ How much money does telling mediocre jokes make you?_

Eddie follows Richie out of the car and inside the house. Even though he knows that he can go through things whenever he pleases, he still politely walks through the front door. And really makes sure not to touch Richie, just in case. Sure, not being seen for such a long time is getting frustrating, but it’s still a while until Eddie starts experimenting like that.

The first thing Richie does is turning all the lights on. Understandable.

“Home, sweet home,” he sighs and kicks his shoes off, leaving them just randomly scattered on the floor.

Eddie’s too busy looking around to mind. He’s not sure what he was expecting – but it surely isn’t a place like _this _to still look and feel kinda... _homey. _Or just, like Richie. There’s no overpriced paintings, no weird modern art that everyone’s so dead set on throwing around their fancy houses to make them look even more fancy.

Richie’s NYC house feels like a safe place. Which, Eddie thinks, might be the entire point.

Richie walks through the hall and into the kitchen, and so does Eddie. Reaching out to touch one of the walls, he almost jumps in excitement as the surface presses back into his fingertips. Scanning the place - and now also briefly touching all over - with more curiosity than he’d like to admit, Eddie doesn’t really keep an eye on the other, so he nearly gets whiplash at the very familiar smell.

So he can smell things too, now? That’s great. And also, how _the fuck _did Richie roll a blunt so fast? Was it already rolled? Does Richie have ready-to-go blunts waiting around for him, all over the states? Why does he also have a drink in the other hand? Does he know that he’s not supposed to mix the two?

Watching Richie’s dumb relaxed expression, Eddie figures that he probably knows. Just doesn’t give a flying fuck.

“You’re a fucking mess, Rich,” he huffs and, feeling brave enough, tries sliding on top of the counter, just on the other side of the kitchen.

It works.

“Well, shit,” Richie answers what Eddie assumes is the first internal monologue of the day and not being called a mess.

Still, is Eddie really one to talk here? Feet hanging above the floor, he kicks them absentmindedly; he’s smoked weed just a couple of times and, honestly, it helped him more than any other bit of medication he had ever had. The stupid cupboard in the en suite bathroom of his house had been filled to brim with prescriptions that he now realized probably weren’t needed. And still, he took more and more.

“You’re a fucking mess, Eddie,” he says to himself now, with pleasantly surprised self-awareness.

“Siri, play _The Eighties,_” Richie says then and Eddie’s attention is back at him, eyebrows raised.

It seems that he shrugged the hoodie off somewhere in between a sip and a smoke.

“_Playing Easy Eighties on Spotify.”_

Leaning against the counter, Richie sways from side to side as the music plays softly. Eddie’s gaze is also soft and joined with a little fond smile, because of course Richie starts singing.

“_Listen to your heart,” _he hums, taps the joint just above the sink and the ash falls down into it like snowflakes. Eddie watches. “_When he’s calling for you, listen to your – _FUCK!”

Glass shatters on the floor – just breaks into three or four big shards of branded expensive trash and Richie jumps, backs into the kitchen counter so hard that the vibration of it reaches even Eddie, on the other side of it.

“Fucking hell, Rich!”

And his heart – or whatever it is that flutters within him – is about to thump right out of his fucking ghost chest now, because _Richie looked at him. _He knows, he saw it for a second there. Felt the soft, unsuspecting gaze land _on _him, not just go _through _him. Eddie’s about to ghost pass out.

Richie is still staring but his eyes are just big and scared, and empty. Whatever it was that made him see Eddie, that’s gone now.

They both breathe out at the same time. Richie runs a hand through his hair, rubs on his lower back that Eddie just _knows_ is going to bruise terribly from slamming into the counter.

“God fucking dammit, Jesus fuck almighty, fuck me gently with a chainsaw.”

That’s sure a sentence.

Richie half-heartedly cleans up the whiskey mess and then just throws half a joint into the sink. His movements are quick and a bit shaky, and Eddie’s frustration levels go through the roof. He kept away from touching him to avoid exactly_ this;_ something that he has no control over happening and scaring Richie. This is the last thing that’s needed.

He needs to be visible. Properly. Long enough to talk to him. The need for it, something that Eddie tries to water down since watching Richie carve things into the kissing bridge, burns in him like fire now.

Richie leaves the kitchen in a hurry. Eddie jumps off the counter and follows him, close.

“Richie! Richie, it’s me! It’s Eddie, spaghetti, whatever _the fuck _– man, come on, I’m here, you’re not just seeing shit! I’m _here! _Rich, it was me-”

The more Eddie shouts, the less clothes Richie has on.

No, really. It starts with him kicking his socks off in the hallway, then he unbuttons his shirt while running up the stairs. _He’s going __for a __shower, _Eddie figures, because he’s dead, not dumb. It doesn’t stop him from shouting, though – and Richie clearly doesn’t hear any of it, because he’s full on talking to himself, again.

“Un_fucking_believable. Steve was fuckin’ right, I need to start exclusively getting that medical stuff, man. Or like, shit from Cali. Yeah, _Cali_. Fuckin’ hell, I’m going_ crazy. I’m_ going crazy! Who’s surprised? No one’s fuckin’ surprised.”

Richie throws the shirt, just tosses it into the air and keeps storming through the house, stomping like a frustrated sasquatch.

Eddie walks right into it.

“What the fuck?!”

It almost drowns him; hand lifts to at least move it out the way of his face. If it’s hanging off him then at least Richie may see a floating shirt. Maybe not him - but something.

Here’s for not trying to further traumatize his friend, right? Desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Cold shower,” Richie keeps mumbling to himself, now pulling off his under-shirt. “Ya just need a cold fuckin’ shower, bud.”

And it also lands on the floor. It’s like a trail of fucking breadcrumbs, except it’s dirty clothes.

“God, you’re such a tramp, Richie,” Eddie huffs.

Eyebrows slightly furrowed and arms crossed as he follows after him. A look way too familiar, were Richie able to see it, and it shifts into something a little more wide-eyed as it’s Richie’s jeans that drop to the floor.

They almost reached the bathroom – Eddie and Richie, and Richie’s CK red boxers. Leaving the jeans behind, a sad pile on the floor, he steps inside and stops. It’s that way of stopping when you suddenly remember something. Eddie also stops, not really sure where to go from here. Does he - ?

“Ah, fuck, the bag -” Richie sighs and turns around on his heel.

And stares directly at Eddie.

Right at his face. Lips parted, eyes wide, awkwardly frozen in place, mid-step. He looks like a statue and Eddie’s heart fucking stops.

Well,_ shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops


	2. Never Tear Us Apart

It happens in the car first. He gets in, sits his ass down and stares into the distance, wondering: _am I good to go? Is the risk of having a complete breakdown mid-driving real? _And then it’s as if the wind whispers something to him, except that it happens in his head and the whispers are bullshit.

_“Bad things come to liars,”_ who? Richie did not just spend half an hour lovingly gazing into the carvings of the past and accepting their meaning fully, with his entire fucking heart, for his brain to suddenly pull a Sonia Kaspbrak on him. And it’s really telling, that this is the first person that comes to his mind after that intrusive voice tries to make him feel guilty.

He shoots it down with a small speech to himself and it works. And, for some reason, that makes the whole journey to New York bearable. Even more so; Richie feels weirdly _relaxed. _Which is the last thing he should feel, after all the shit that went down in Derry – but he does. Drinking his coffee, eating flavorless shitty food that would make Eddie lose his marbles, humming along to one of his many playlists. The drive is truly _not so bad _and that is really saying a lot, all things considered.

But then it happens in the kitchen.

Whiskey swirling in the glass, branded and expensive, Richie drinks to the silence, drinks to being alive – even though it doesn’t seem too great right this moment, there is a nagging voice in the back of his head that tells to _wait it out._

Breathe, drink some more, smoke it up, it’s not so bad.

It’s what he’s done after dropping out – Sacramento’s weed be damned but that’s beside the point. And after his father’s funeral; he will never forget Maggie’s face after she found him hidden behind the chapel, how he felt like a stupid teenager up until the moment she grabbed the joint out of his trembling fingers and stuck it right into her burgundy painted mouth. 

“_Ah, now I know who I got it from,” _he joked back then but now – now it’s just making him reflective. There really is a pattern here, of how he deals with life’s bullshit.

“Well, shit.”

Warmth spreads from where his lips are closed around the joint, right through the chest. Eyes flutter close and Richie lets it work it’s magic. 

Back in the day, when he dabbled in therapy and counselling – management’s request, he used to get these terrible anxiety attacks performing in theme parks or in old buildings, _gee, wonder why?_ – they told him to try mindful meditation or yoga, but – well, not only did weed work much faster, it also didn’t make him sore all fucking over, so there’s that.

He tells Siri to play eighties music, not yet aware of what’s coming.

Not that he doesn’t have a few good high playlists – he just doesn’t particularly feel like any of them tonight. Will he ever feel like any of his old stuff ever again? He’s not sure.

Roxette’s _‘Listen To Your Heart’ _starts gently playing through the house’s speaker system. With the old memories resurfaced – and newfound, _e__specially those_ – he feels like an entirely different fucking person. Like he’s just about to drive into a sharp turn – and has yet to see what’s around the corner. 

And it happens.

Scares the shit out of him, this time around. Halfway through a drink, halfway through a joint and halfway through a song: a glimpse of a way too familiar body, hovering over the kitchen counter, catches Richie by surprise. There’s no wind’s whispering this time around, no feelings of being watched.

One second it’s not there, the next – _bam,_ a punch right in the fucking heart, there you go, enjoy.

He drops his glass because _of course _he does. Jumps violently and his back hits the kitchen counter so hard Richie nearly sees fucking stars.

And if there’s a name in big, bold, red letters, punching him in the brain, he pushes it away because _no fucking way._ The vision is gone and Richie is not going to encourage any weed-induced hallucinations, no. Even if it seemed so, _so real, _for this short fucking moment -

_Shower. _A cold fucking shower is what he needs.

It’s ridiculous and Richie’s trying so hard to rationalize it and blame it on the weed, or on the fact that his entire brain is exhausted. The music is still playing but he barely hears it. Just drops his clothes, throws them around like a madman, stomps through his lonely little mansion nearly naked. Turns the bathroom lights on, steps in and stops right there, seeing the empty, dust-covered shelves.

“Ah, fuck,” he sighs “the bag.”

No, _no way, Jose, _if Richie’s washing the stress of today’s fucking surprises off, he needs his damn apple scented shower gel, _thank you very much._

He turns around. And fucking _freezes._

It’s not just wind’s whispering this time. Not a brief glimpse of a silhouette.

It’s _Eddie. _In Richie’s hallway, with Richie’s dirty, sweaty shirt hanging off him awkwardly like an ugly blanket. And he stares right back, all doe-eyed and anxious-scared, and Richie’s mind just one long confused screech.

“_You_,” the apparition says, hesitant “You can actually see me, right? Not just the shirt? Because I’m gonna be _really_ _fucking pissed_ if all you can see is a shirt floating at about the average height of a man.”

It takes a minute, it really does. Turns out that his head might be still a little buzzed, given he just smoked half a joint and had half a drink. The first actual coherent thought that Richie has, standing in nothing but boxers on in the middle of his fucking hallway, is -

_'__E__ddie._ Eddie. _E__ddie, __E__ddie, __E__ddie --__’_

And with that thought – and only that one – he moves.

With lips parted and eyes piercing underneath the furrowed brows. He seems — _fucking enchanted_, is what he seems. Makes one realize how _easy_ it would be for **_I_****_t_** to get **_It's_** hands on Richie even now. How, even after everything that happened, there's no ounce of mistrust in Richie, his instincts rendered useless at the mere sight of Eddie in front of him.

The _“magic”_ of this moment breaks a little at what Richie does next – just grabs Eddie's face, frowns even more. And then presses his fingers into it, keeps pressing all over it, as if he is testing the fucking texture or something. Perplexed, he pinches Eddie's cheek, pulls on his ear. Nearly pokes his eye out.

The big doe eyes darken.

“Don’t do that, asshole.”

A hand comes up to slap his away, then pulls back to massage the spot that got pinched. The expression he sees, all frowns and pouts, is way too familiar. Only then does Richie’s mind clear a little.

“What. _The fuck._”

Reaching out again, he gently peels his shirt off Eddie, lets it fall to the floor. Eddie watches it fall and then looks up at him again, hesitant.

“Rich.”

_Stop it._

“Is this – _what is this._ There’s – I’m – I went mad. _HA!_”

At this moment, he sounds it. And looks it.

“Uh,” Eddie blinks up at him, expression gentle and bizarre. A soft huff of a breath. Arms awkwardly dropped at his sides. He’s wearing the same shirt, the same everything, that he had on while they left him down there, in the sewers, except it’s clean and not torn, and there’s no_ holes in it._

Richie is about to lose his shit.

“_Oh _no, don’t. Don’t make that face. You – you look so real, why _the fuck _do you look so real.”

Eddie breathes out again, a small sigh.

“I mean, hopefully I am real, Rich, because this would fucking suck if I wasn’t,” he says.

That one actually makes Richie laugh – it's a small, hysterical huff of laughter, but it's laughter nonetheless.

Eddie’s not laughing, though – just keeps talking. Spitting the words out at him, fast and intense, and Richie wouldn’t be able to look away even if he wanted to.

“_You’re_ real, aren’t you? Because there’s likely to be some sick, twisted probability that this is some fucked up hell based simulation, and I’d rather know _now._ Because I’m not here for you to turn around and be Satan in a Richie suit.”

Great, sure, all he needs is to be unsure of his own fucking existence.

He looks at Eddie, _really_ looks at him and then his eyes slowly drop to the other's chest. Richie remembers it vividly and the memory hits him with such a painful intensity that there's no questions left. No nightmare ever felt this terrible.

"Yeah, I'm fucking real. Unfortunately. Not uh—S_atan in a __Richie__ suit._"

And he laughs again, softer this time. Mind still buzzing but not as much – why not humor the hallucination or _whatever the fuck_ a little bit? That's how Richie copes, anyway.

The hallucination doesn’t seem _humored. _It seems _suspicious_ and Richie thinks that this is a laughably extreme level of irony.

"Well, that’s something that fucking Satan would say.” Eddie squints at him, looks him up and down; mouth pulling into a weird sort of a wince and Richie could swear that his cheeks gotten pink. “Not to judge you, dude, but I ain’t about to let you use Trashmouth against me. No, sir-ee."

This time it’s Richie who sighs. _Give him a fucking break._

"I am _not_ the fuckin' devil, for crying out loud. As far as I'm concerned, you might be. Here to torture me 'cause the fuckin' clown was your second cousin or some shit."

That seems to piss the hallucination off. The sight is truly hypnotizing. It’s like Eddie’s vibrating. The soft eighties music playing in the background makes it all just so much more ridiculous. It’s “_If You Were Here” _by the Thompson Twins now.

And something is here, and it’s _fuming._

“Hey, asshole, don’t try to turn this around! Like, no offence, your facade? Good stuff, you know. Super fucking distracting with the lack of clothes, not gonna lie, but seriously -”

The rambling does him no good. Especially that it sounds so painfully like Eddie and it only makes Richie miss him more, and _how the fuck_ does he do that when the guy is right in front of him? Sue him for still not quite grasping it. He's half naked and afraid.

Richie reaches out again. His finger pokes Eddie's chest; it's a gentle poke and it doesn't go through. It stops the other’s ramblings, fast and completely. Big eyes drop to Richie’s finger, lips part with silence. Richie gnaws on his lower lip.

“Huh."

He pokes again, then just presses his hand against Eddie's chest fully. Takes a moment, but he can feel _it._ A small, rhythmic flutter, right underneath his touch. Something resembling a heartbeat. Eddie’s eyes soften, as if he’s listening to it too.

Richie's teeth sink into his lower lip again, painfully, but it's nothing compared to the pain he feels in his own chest now. Like a fucking stab.

"Don't do this to me, man,” he says and it’s quiet and small, and broken. “Can you – can you not – _please_, I can't – I can't let myself believe you're here, I _can't._"

Hand falls to Richie's side, the other moving up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Richie,” Eddie says, pleading.

He really needs to stop saying his name like that. Richie shakes his head, opens one eye to look at him again.

"Well, I _am_ talking to you, so. Already broke the first rule of fuckin' _S__anity 101_ and acknowledged that you're – you _seem_ to be here.”

They are just staring at each other now and the silence is worse than screaming.

“I am here,” Eddie says, finally.

“What is this? Eddie, _what the fuck_ is this."

This seems to set the other off again. He steps forward and Richie can feel his entire body stiffen; it must be obvious, because Eddie’s eyes widen and he stops mid-step, expression screaming frustrated, as if he’s not sure whether to put his hand on Richie’s shoulder or smack him.

Maybe getting smacked wouldn’t be so terrible. Maybe it would help.

Eddie doesn’t smack him, though. Just spits more fiery words at him.

"You think I know what this is? Like, I wanna believe I'm actually here with you. With _my_ Richie but now I'm scared that it’s some kind of a trick or a punishment and like, I know I'm fucking dead, Rich. I shouldn't be here at all. I. I couldn’t leave you, though. I saw you at the kissing bridge, I tried making you see me and it didn’t work.”

It's those words that make Richie very, very much aware of the reality. He remembers feeling relaxed on his way to New York, almost _content. _Was that because he wasn’t in that car alone? Can it be that...?

Somehow, as he looks at Eddie properly, _really_ takes everything in – he feels it fucking _hit him._ Call it a sixth fucking sense or maybe something that got planted inside of him after looking into the clown's mouth, after seeing all the death – but suddenly, Richie _sees __E__ddie_.

He knows it's Eddie.

"Oh my fuckin' God, it’s really you."

His voice is small and kind of flat, and his eyes unreadable. And for just another minute, Richie forgets about being stripped down to his underwear, blocks out the mention of the kissing bridge that normally would render him a speechless mess. He steps closer, determined.

"Yeah, it's really me, asshole,” Eddie huffs. “I tried saying that but— _oh_."

Richie closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around the other. Tight. INXS’ “_Never Tear Us Apart” _hums in the background and that’s the only sound surrounding them. How fucking_ lovely._

He can feel Eddie stiffen up for a moment – and then relax into the embrace. Fall comfortably into it. Arms carefully unfold and wrap around Richie’s waist. It’s _glorious._

And not possible – it shouldn't be. But they live in a world of inter-dimensional alien spider-clowns and hallucinations so real they can kill you (or put you in the closet for nearly thirty years), so Richie decides to fully believe his instincts, now that they actually seem to work again. _Fuck it._

Cheek presses into Eddie's hair and he pulls him even closer. Arms tighten around the smaller frame, hands grip the shirt. He can feel the fabric's texture, can feel the rise and fall of Eddie's chest. It makes him want to cry.

And Eddie walks right into it, with the same amount of intensity. Pulls Richie right against himself, mirrors the grip, pushes into the embrace. Only then does Richie realize that Eddie's a bit colder. He even _smells it;_ like the air when it's about to snow. It makes him squeeze the other even tighter, bury his face in the crook of his neck, _don't be cold, here -_

And Eddie trembles and sighs softly. It’s the most beautiful sound Richie’s ever heard.

“Eds,” he breathes out.

One realization comes after the other, though – he opens his eyes, slightly so, sees the shirt on the floor, tangled up in between their legs. Feels the fabric of Eddie's jeans on his bare knees.

_O_ _h, shit._

A full body blusher, Richie steps back with not only the tips of his ears red but also his neck and chest. Which is completely out there, pale and exposed, and leaving nothing for imagination. Eddie’s staring at him with his lips slightly parted, arms still out and spread where they held Richie for a second or two, before they slowly fall back to his sides. Not sure what to do with his own hands, whether to reach down and get the shirt or let it go, Richie just sort of flails around awkwardly.

"I’ll, uh – we should sit down and talk about whatever the fuck is going on. Like, this is not a conversation to be had in the hall and uh," he gestures at himself and grins, gaze never leaving Eddie. “Y'know."

Eddie is staring at him, right into his face; there’s a stubborn line on his forehead with how unmoving those big eyes stay. As if somebody’s paying him to look at Richie’s mug and _only_ there. He nods, clears his throat.

"Yeah, uh, there's. Clearly a lot to talk about.”

Still in a desperate need of a shower, Richie dumbly thinks to excuse himself for ten minutes. But those minutes could be enough for Eddie to disappear again, to leave without a trace; something in Richie's chest tightens painfully.

Something must show on his face because Eddie’s stubborn gaze softens with worry.

“Rich?”

Losing Eddie again would just do him for good. He wouldn't get back up from that, not ever.

With that terrible thought in mind, he takes a step closer and, with a bit panicked eagerness, blurts out:

"Come shower with me."

_ Yikes._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every chapter just ends with a whoopsie, it's a thing now


	3. You Keep It All In

“Come shower with me.”

Eddie’s eyebrows raise so high and quick, they nearly touch his hairline. It probably makes him look like a fucking cartoon character.

“Uh, what.”

It’s a little bit too much, even after what he already went through – being invisible for the whole day, that entire _is it Richie or is it Satan?_ mental breakdown and their very much emotional, stripped and lingering hug. Eddie _still _feels greatly unprepared for whatever is happening right now.

Richie’s face and chest goes even redder. He flails his arms awkwardly.

"I mean, to the bathroom. Just like, sit there with me, keep talking, dunno,” he explains, eyes still wide and trained on Eddie. “In case that's what's needed for you not to pull an invisibility cloak again.”

Eddie blinks.

“I – _oh, _yeah. Yeah, that makes sense.”

It really does – and maybe he’d be a little embarrassed for not immediately getting it but, honestly, Richie’s phrasing could use some improvement. Also, just the general confusion is to be blamed for his brain being a little slower. After all, it’s not everyday that you come back from the dead and face your grieving, lowkey high and a half-naked friend.

“Cool,” Richie nods and his whole posture seems to relax, even if just a little bit.

His eyes never seem to leave Eddie, not for longer than two seconds at a time, as if he’s still trying to get a grasp on the situation. It’s very much mutual. Richie picks up his scattered clothes on the way back to the bathroom;apparently suddenly conscious about the mess. Or maybe he just wants to be polite. And, don’t get him wrong, Eddie would most definitely complain about it, were circumstances different. The mess, the careless drug usage, the fact that the hug was as much lovely as it was _sweaty._ (Well, to be fair he _did stop him _from taking that shower.) Right now though, he couldn’t fucking care less. There’s other things to worry about.

He follows Richie into the bathroom in small steps, fiddles with his fingers all the way through the doorway. Only then does Eddie realize that his wedding ring is still in place. The sight catches him by surprise even though it probably shouldn’t; he’s simply wearing the same shit he died in, right? Makes sense for it to still be there. It’s the sound of the door shutting that snaps him out of playing with the damn thing. He looks up at Richie and smiles a small, tense smile. The bathroom isn’t too big and Eddie takes a step back, closer to one of the walls.

Richie’s just – there. Skin and sweat, and he’s way more hairy than Eddie thought he’d be – not that Eddie used to actively think about it – and it’s kind of gross but at the same time_ not at all._ He feels a bizarre need to cover up his fucking wedding ring.

It shouldn’t matter now. He’s _dead._ And yet, he’s pretty sure that, given some context, Myra would still find a way to get upset about it. (“You’re dead _and _watching other men shower?! That is _ghost cheating!_”) To stop himself from what would be probably a rather hysterical laugh, Eddie starts talking.

“Okay, but – what if it just happens? I have no goddamn clue how to control this yet, Rich. Like, what if I just go invisible?”

It’s a real and a scary question, and asking it out loud makes something in the air shift. Sure, it’s true that Eddie feels pretty much grounded and certain in his visibility. Aside from being immune to pressing human needs like eating or drinking, which he already figured out was the case, the state he’s in doesn’t feel that much different from when he was alive. But still, he can’t just depend on _a feeling _and call it a day. Anything could happen. Richie gnaws on his lower lip, stares him up and down. The speaker system apparently doesn’t go as far as the small guest bathroom, because everything around them is quiet. Eddie shifts from one leg to the other.

“Well,” Richie starts, slow and careful “you said that you were here for a while, right? Like, by my side.”

And then he cringes a bit at his own words – which sure sound cheesy, but are also very much true, so Eddie nods.

“Yeah, for the whole time.”

Richie looks at him for another couple of seconds, expression unreadable. And then, to Eddie’s dumb relief, he finally moves to get the shower running.

“So, uh. Even if you go all poltergeist again, you'll still _be here.”_ He probably tries to make it sound convincing but fails. “I'm assuming. I – I’m hoping. Didn't exactly teach us about that at school.”

Given a little more space, Eddie breathes out; not even aware he was holding his breath in the first place. The sound of the water running makes him _ache _for a hot, relaxing shower.

“I guess you’re right, yeah,” he nods, not exactly convinced himself. “I’ll try and figure out how to push shit over for if I _do_ suddenly pull _a __Houdini _or – or whatever.”

The smile on his face might be slightly awkward but it’s definitely genuine. He’s rather humored at the idea of getting to move shit about, even if it’s a weird thing to find humorous. Give him a break, he’s a dead man. He should be allowed to find dead people shit laughable. And apparently Richie finds it just as amusing, because he barks out a laugh, adjusts the shower handle a little.

“Great,” he says “being properly haunted is on my fucking bucket list.”

Looking at Richie’s bare back feels just a little less awkward than the full frontal view. Eddie tries to keep himself from staring into it anyway. Admires the modern look of the small bathroom space instead; gaze drops down to the small pile of clothes on the floor and that _hits him _with an idea.

A _genius idea._

“_Or! - _I can find something to wear that isn’t the crap I’m stuck in now. Like a hat, I’ll just be a floating hat.”

Richie, seeming satisfied with the water’s temperature, turns back around. Eddie’s eyes have to be bright as fuck, as he grins up at him because the hat idea is _fucking gold _and he deserves recognition for that. His grin is yet again met with an expression that’s pretty much impossible to read. One corner of Richie’s mouth curls up ever so slightly but that’s it. Truly an underwhelming reaction.

Richie’s gaze shifts into something more intent. Eddie’s entirely clueless. Not only is his idea not appreciated but now they’re just wasting water for no goddamn reason?

Richie sighs.

“Okay, but if you don't wanna be personally introduced to Richard Jr, it'd be a good moment to look away, Spaghetti,” he shrugs and Eddie’s lips part. “I'm totally about to get naked.”

“Oh! Right.”

“Yeah.”

_Of course. _Kinda necessary to take a shower, right?

Eddie, after a moment of hesitation, lifts his hands to cover his eyes like some fucking child. For a moment he wonders if he’d be able to see through them, being _a ghost _and whatnot, but it seems to work perfectly normal. He can’t see shit. He can still _hear _shit, though, and the material sliding against skin doesn’t go unnoticed. All of the sudden his tongue feels too big for his mouth.

“You _named it?_” he asks, because standing like this in complete silence makes him feel like a dumbass. “Damn. I can’t believe you missed out on the chance of calling it _Little Richard._”

The silence that follows makes Eddie want to uncover his eyes, just to make sure that it’s not Richie who’s suddenly pulled a _fucking Houdini._ For the longest moment it’s just running water and the flutter of Eddie’s ghost heart, and he’s desperate enough to start talking again, but _finally _the other’s voice speaks over the noise.

“Yeah, _okay,_ Eddie."

It sounds half-amused and half... something else Eddie can’t quite put a finger on. He doesn’t want to either, so he just keeps going.

“Before you get all fucking defensive, it’s because it’s_ smaller _than you. I’m not saying it’s like, _little. _Just a _littler Richard,_ okay?” And if that’s not fucking enough already, he finishes it up with: “I’m sure he’s fucking wonderful or _whatever_, either way.”

This time the silence doesn’t last that long.

“Thank you for the clarification,” Richie huffs, sounding a little weak. “I was_ this_ close to running for my phone and answering one of those “_Make Ya Dick Bigger”_ spam e-mails.”

Eddie’s laugh is a little too loud and too relieved.

“Well, these are bullshit. One little supplement can’t possibly get you from a fiver to a niner.”

He’s rambling. Awkwardly rambling. Like he had accidentally walked in on him instead of stupidly hiding behind his hands with mutual consent. It’s not like they hadn’t seen anything before, anyway – even if it was many fucking years ago and Eddie remembers it very vaguely. Richie did have a thing for parading around naked, didn’t he? It never seemed to bother him, were they swimming in the quarry or sleeping over at someone’s place. He’d just walk out of the bathroom to ask for an extra towel with nothing on and everyone would screech.

Or was it just him? Maybe it was just Eddie who would screech. He doesn’t remember it _that _well.

Richie huffs out a laugh and it sounds a bit more relaxed from whatever his voice was doing before.

“It’s what I was trying to tell you. Don't believe the shit you read on the internet. Most of it is just clickbait-y baloney."

Eddie’s brows move against the palm of his hands; his own personal frown that nobody can see. It’s not that he has to worry about shit like that still – and probably _ever again – _but apparently old habits don’t even die with a person, because he still lets himself get defensive.

“Okay, but there’s a big difference between the _likeliness of cancer _and pills that apparently work as an instagrow for your _dick,_ asshole. Also, what’s so _beneficial _about a nine inch cock?”

Eddie hears the movement of the shower cabin’s door sliding, followed by two heavy steps. Then it slides again. Still, he doesn’t dare to move his hands until he’s properly being told to. Which happens just moments after that; Richie’s voice sounds a bit muffled and there’s _a smile _in it that makes Eddie bite on the inside of his cheek. _Shut up._

“Alright, you can chillax now. Me and my, uh, _fucking wonderful _manhood are out of sight.”

Arms drop to the sides with a sigh that’s way too relieved. Eddie’s not even aware of being _oh-so-worked-up _until he’s not. The glass wall that Richie’s showering behind is milky and all that Eddie can make out is just a vague silhouette. At this point the entire bathroom is steamy as Hell itself and – _okay, _he’s not going to go there again. Calling Richie _actual Satan_ feels perhaps even more embarrassing than going on a tangent about magic dick pills.

“Okay, cool,” he says, just to say_ anything, _back pressed against the wall.

He figures he has to; either way Richie might think he _did _pull a Houdini and Eddie would hate to stress him out like that.

“So! This is fucking weird, right?” Hidden inside of the cabin and surrounded by water, Richie seems to speak with way more ease. “You, uh – you’ve been _creeping on me _since the very fucking morning? Like, all the way, no breaks?’Cause I saw you in the kitchen, just for a moment, so I’m wondering if you heard me...”

Eddie stares into the milky glass like he’s trying to burn holes into it.

“Heard you what?” he finally asks and it seems to hang in the air as heavily as all the steam does.

Richie’s quiet for another couple of seconds. Eddie thinks back to the kissing bridge, to a speech that he’s still yet to properly think over – and yet, it already makes his chest hurt with an unnamed kind of longing.

“Uh, if you heard me sing?” Richie finally blurts out. “‘Cause that’s like, _terrible_ levels of embarrassing. I’d say I have to kill ya, but. You know.”

Eddie tries his best to ignore the small pull of disappointment that settles somewhere in his fluttering chest.

“Yep. I heard it alright. I also saw you eat the gross gas station food and shit yourself in the kitchen.” The words come out a little too grumpy for his own liking, so he quickly goes on: “Sorry for that one. I – as I said, I have no idea how to control this shit. It just magically works on its own.”

The squeaky sound of feet shuffling on the wet shower cabin floor dies down completely. Richie might be rinsing his hair; he might be also just standing underneath the hot stream of the water, unmoving. Eddie can’t tell.

“Yeah, I – I thought I was going insane for a second,” he says and the words leave him quickly, as if he can’t wait to let them go. “Like, we all remember shit now, apparently, which is great. Will save a lot of confusion for both Bev and Ben, when they wake up together whatever _La-La-Land_ they left off to.”

“_Oh,_” Eddie breathes softly, because that’s news for him.

Not the fact of _something _being there, one-sided or not. That’s something that everyone was aware of, back in the day – and poor Ben was so soft about it that even Richie never really made jokes around the subject. But after being back there twenty seven years later and facing lethal danger, Eddie didn’t really have much time to pay attention to whatever romantic endeavors the others were or weren’t getting. That’s why Richie’s words manage to surprise him.

So they found each other in the end. Eddie smiles to himself, feels his throat tighten with a mixture of sensations. There’s soft and gleaming happiness for his friends because _of course _he wants nothing else for them but to be fucking content for the rest of the days. There’s also something else and it makes him drop his gaze to the floor, fiddle with his wedding ring again.

“Yeah, lovely,” Richie continues, just as fast and loud as before “but it means all the gore and tears, and the clown’s terrible white boy dancing is there too. And it’s not going anywhere, that’s for sure. So I just thought it was _too much._ That I snapped.”

Eddie’s lips part but no words come out. He finds himself picking at random shit; pressing his hand against the wall and just distracting himself in the contrast of a cold tile versus the rather warm steamy room. Despite the lack of any response, Richie continues. Maybe _that’s why _he does.

“It would make sense for me to see _you, _if I did,” he says and it’s so quiet Eddie barely makes out the words. “If my traumatized brain wanted to torture me? Ten outta ten choice.”

Eddie’s eyes drop to his shoes now. It’s a shocker they don’t just instantly go ablaze at how intently he stares into them.

“Rich,” he says in a barely-there whisper that definitely gets lost in the shower sounds.

“I know it’s you, though,” Richie continues softly. “Not sure how, I just _know._”

It physically pains him now, thinking about it. The implications, the fucking kissing bridge speech, the fact that the universe decided to drop him at Richie’s side even though he fucking _died_.

With great amounts of determination and no clue about what exactly he’s going to say, Eddie looks up. And that’s exactly when Richie decides to leave the fucking shower. Just slides the cabin door open and walks out, one long leg after the other, with nothing to cover him up but steam. Eddie should have been more prepared for it. His mouth stays hanging open and eyes go as wide as a fucking owl’s before furiously blinking and darting back up to Richie’s face.

_ God, why the fuck would you look there first?_

Richie’s as unbothered with that nude parade as he used to be back in the day. He grabs a towel from the rack and ties it around his hips; it seems that without his glasses he’s as blind as a fucking bat, because he peers at Eddie with a rather calm smile and it means he totally can’t see _the_ _absolute terror_ that he caused.

“Uh,” Eddie manages.

“Okay, but I’m gonna have to charge you for that peep show just now. Sorry.”

He says it as if he just pulled a funky little magic trick with a card deck instead of showing Eddie his entire dick.

“Uh, what?” Eddie clears his throat as Richie puts his glasses back on. “Oh, yeah, _haha. _Sure. Ghost cash or ghost credit?”

Blame it on the steam but Eddie’s face feels fucking hot all over. Is it possible that he’s blushing? _How _in the world would that even work? And even if he is, Richie’s not going to let him know. The lenses of his glasses are as white as the steam-covered mirror right next to him. He can’t see shit and it makes him look ridiculous; especially when he turns his head into Eddie’s direction with a wide grin spreading his lips.

“_Ghost cash or ghost credit,_" he repeats with a soft huff. "You're funny, aren't you? Do you want a ghost job? I'll hire you to write my bits.”

Eddie wants to punch him right in the face. Desperately.

He opens the bathroom door and Eddie walks out of there so quickly that they nearly stumble into each other in the doorway. Richie’s still smiling as his glasses gradually clear up; lazy and so, so unaware. The _Easy Eighties _playlist still carries on with the ultimate banger selection: The Beautiful South hits them with the first notes of _You Keep It All In._

“I don’t know,” Eddie says, head spinning. “They might be a little _ghastly._”

_Ba dum tss. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> catch me on harderpng on tumblr. i'm there sometimes


End file.
